The Witness

by Naomi Kryskle

  She went into the bathroom to change out of her court clothes. When she came out, Davies and Hunt had already left. She had wanted to explain to Hunt why she couldn’t call him Alan—because it had been part of Rob’s name—but he had gone. She curled up on the sofa, but when she closed her eyes to rest, Rob’s face was what she saw. She covered her head with her arms and sobbed, grieving again, not only for his loss but also for the manner in which he had died, because she knew how it felt to be broken.

  The door opened and closed behind her, and she heard whispered voices. Someone left, and there was just one voice. “I’ve brought dinner, Jen. Would you eat with me?”

  She sat up gingerly. In spite of the medication Sergeant Casey had given her during the lunch recess, she ached all over from her fall. Colin had brought soup with noodles, chunks of chicken, peas, and tiny slices of green onion. Brian would have watched to see if she ate the peas. There was French bread and hot tea. “Colin, I didn’t help anybody in there today. I couldn’t even stand.”

  “Jen, you never gave up. You never gave in. That’s the same thing, in my book.”

  She shook her head.

  “Would it help if I read you the Twenty-third Psalm?”

  “I learned it, but I’m stuck on one of the middle lines: ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’ No matter what I do, I’m afraid. Not just of the monster, but of all the people who work for him, legally and otherwise.”

  Colin looked up the verse. “I’m no scholar,” he said, “but it does say ‘walk through.’ You’re not meant to stay in that accursed valley. And it also says you’re not alone.”

  He reached across the corner of the judge’s desk and took her hand. “Jenny, I talk to your family every night. They’re very proud of you, and so am I.”

  “Proud of what?” She began to cry. “I was terrible out there!”

  Colin moved his chair next to hers. “Proud of everything—your commitment, your tenacity, your inner strength.” She accepted his handkerchief. The gentle voice continued. “They tried to destroy you, and they failed. Jenny, you are testifying in St. George Court. That’s appropriate, don’t you think? Dragons are slain here.” He put his hand on her shoulder, and she leaned her wet cheek against it.

  When Casey returned, he saw Jenny gripping Sinclair’s handkerchief and trying to absorb his encouraging words.

  Sergeant Andrews knocked and entered. “Give her my best,” he said, handing Casey a carrier-bag. “Susie picked these up today. I hope they fit.” He and Sinclair left together.

  Casey gave Jenny medication to ease her aches and pains and something to help her sleep. He settled her on the sofa and climbed into his sleeping bag. He hadn’t been there long when he heard her voice.

  “Sergeant Casey—please—let me hold onto you. All I see when I close my eyes is that awful picture of Rob.”

  He let her crawl into the sleeping bag, and he sat next to her on the floor.

  “Thank you for today, Sergeant Casey. The way you helped me after I fainted. I’ll never forget it.”

  He wouldn’t either, for other reasons. He’d understood with unwelcome clarity how Sinclair had felt when he’d seen her body bleeding behind the court block. It was a complication he did not want. When she finally fell asleep, he tucked her hand inside the sleeping bag and took her place on the sofa. He searched his mind for some way to help her in the morning, and he would have vehemently denied that it was a prayer.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jenny didn’t sleep at all well, crying repeatedly during the night. Once Casey saw her trying frantically to brush nonexistent spider webs from her face, chest, and arms. “There’s a spider in Texas whose poison makes your flesh rot,” she explained. “I dreamed it was here.”

  He woke early and rang Davies, telling him to parade thirty minutes sooner than the previous mornings and to have Hunt with him. He phoned Sinclair, explaining that since she’d had a rough night, it would take some extra time to get her ready for the day and would he schedule his pre-court visit well ahead of time? Last, he gave Andrews a bell, explaining that he would have to medicate Jenny before her court appearance and they needed breakfast as soon as he could provide it.

  When she woke, he handed her the carrier-bag with the new clothes and sent her into the bathroom to dress. When she came out, breakfast had been delivered. She saw the container of pain pills in his hand and gave him a weak smile. “That’s the carrot in front of the horse.”

  “Right. You have to eat first.”

  Susie Andrews had found a two-piece sweater set, soft yellow with a hint of pink, to go with Jenny’s dark green wool suit. Jenny tucked a napkin in the crew-neck sweater and ate what was necessary. The color of the sweater made her look like a ripe peach, tender and easily bruised.

  Casey watched her receive Sinclair’s words of encouragement with a brave smile, only to break down the moment the door closed behind him. When Davies and Hunt arrived, he took the opportunity to brief the officers stationed outside. “I’m going to give the witness a pep talk. No matter what you hear, stay out and keep everyone else out.”

  “Back me up,” he told Davies and Hunt. “Jenny, pay attention.”

  She had no choice: It was The Voice.

  “Long ago, before we met you, we were briefed—Davies, Sullivan, and I. Graves and Sinclair described this assignment, and I didn’t want any part of it. I wanted to get armed criminals off the streets. I wanted to join other armed officers in fighting the war against drugs. I did not want to be shut up in a bloody flat day after day minding some Yank—a friggin’ female at that—who was overimpressed with her own importance.”

  He had made her cry. He had expected that. He raised his voice slightly and kept the same firm tone. “Do you want to know what changed my mind? Do you? I saw pictures of what Scott did to you, photos taken at hospital, and I got angry. Not yell-at-persons angry—not throw-things angry—but determined angry, deep-in-the-gut angry. Remember where your pain was that time I examined you?” He reached out and touched the fabric of her skirt just a few inches above her pubis. “There, Jenny. I want you to fill that place with anger.”

  He raised the volume another notch and his intensity with it. “I don’t give a toss what your reason is—God knows, you’ve got enough to choose from. Get angry for the other women! Get angry for your scars! Get angry for the months of your life that scumbag has taken! Get angry for Sullivan, Jenny!” He grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. “Give me a bloody pillow, Hunt!”

  He faced her. “All these months we’ve watched you struggle—heard you cry—because of what that bloody bastard did! Haven’t you been a punch bag long enough? Now hit it! Take a swing, and hit it like you mean it!”

  She saw his fists clenching the sides of the pillow. She remembered the monster’s fists coming at her. She was sobbing out loud now.

  “Hit it like it’s his bloody face!”

  She struck out blindly, unable to see because of her tears.

  “Damn it, hit harder, Jenny! Does he still have power over you, or are you going to take your power back?”

  She slammed the pillow. She pounded it. She pummeled it.

  “Texas, go, go, go!” yelled Hunt.

  “Take him down, JJ!”

  “I hate you!” she screamed, punching harder and faster, the tears streaming down her face. “I hate you!”

  He dropped the pillow to grip her shoulders, stopping her next swing. “Well done!”

  He saw her shake her head, trying to refocus.

  “Healthy anger can make you stronger. Hold onto that power! Take it into the courtroom with you.”

  When they heard the usher’s voice, she turned toward it, her shoulders straight. There was strength in her step for the first time. When she seated herself on the chair Davies had supplied, they saw her gather her feet beneath her, rest her fists loosely in her lap, and raise her chin.

  Mr. Alford rose slightly. “Your Honour,
my worthy colleague, Mr. Rhoads, will continue the cross-examination of this witness.”

  It was the pit bull. Hunt had other names for him, more colorful ones. She was ready for him.

  “Did you have a good rest last night, Miss Jeffries?”

  “I slept like a baby,” she answered with a fixed smile.

  Casey had told Sinclair that she’d cried half the night. Oh—just like a baby!

  “How old are you, Miss Jeffries?”

  “Your Honour,” said Mr. Benjamin, “her age is a matter of record.”

  “So it is,” said the judge. “Move on, Mr. Rhoads.”

  “Miss Jeffries, do you actually expect us to believe that you were still a virgin at the mature age of twenty-three?”

  “Your Honour,” said the prosecutor, “the Crown will present objective evidence of that.”

  “Quite. Be very careful, Mr. Rhoads.”

  “Bleeding,” continued defence counsel undeterred, “can occur for all kinds of reasons. Were you in your menstrual cycle at the time of the alleged attack?”

  “Your Honour,” objected Mr. Benjamin, “Miss Jeffries has testified to the cause of her vaginal bleeding. The medical report, a copy of which was provided for the defence, confirms it. Her hymen was ruptured by the defendant!”

  “I will not warn you again, Mr. Rhoads,” the judge said.

  “Miss Jeffries, the description you gave of your attacker was quite particular. More of your fiction?” Rhoads asked.

  “No.”

  “Then how do you account for the details you provided?”

  “The light was on in the room, and it was happening to me.”

  “Miss Jeffries, the record shows that you identified my client from an artist’s sketch. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  She had dropped the respectful form of address, Sinclair noticed.

  “But you were in hospital at the time, were you not?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Did you subsequently identify my client from a photo array prepared by the police?”

  “I did.”

  “While you were still in hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “You never identified him in person?” Rhoads asked in mock outrage.

  “No. As you pointed out, I was in the hospital.”

  “The medical record shows that you had a concussion. Is it possible that your memory was affected by the concussion, causing you to identify the wrong man?”

  “No. I don’t have trouble remembering your client. I have trouble forgetting him.” She heard Casey chuckle under his breath.

  “Your Honour, the witness has identified the accused in this court,” prosecuting counsel said.

  “Indeed she has,” agreed the judge.

  “Miss Jeffries, how old would you say that I am?”

  “Your Honour.”

  “I’ll allow it, Mr. Benjamin.”

  She pressed one of her fists against her belly. “In your thirties.”

  “Would you please be more specific?”

  “Mid to late thirties,” she guessed.

  “Miss Jeffries, I am forty-two. Appearance of age can vary widely, can it not?”

  Damn. He had spent too much time in the law library. She had to answer yes.

  “The judgement of a witness can be far from accurate, isn’t that so, Miss Jeffries?”

  Again she had to answer in the affirmative.

  “Would you describe for the court what you were wearing on the day you claim you were attacked?”

  “Dark blue slacks with a white blouse.”

  “That’s all? No knickers?” he sneered. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear. I am asking you to describe all your clothing.”

  She turned to the judge. “Do I have to do that, sir? Describe my underwear?”

  “Miss Jeffries, you don’t have to answer the question if you don’t understand the relevance. You may ask counsel politely what the relevance is,” Judge Thomas answered.

  “You want to know about my underwear?” she asked Rhoads.

  He gave her a mock bow, arms extended and palms up.

  She lifted her chin. “It was clean.”

  Laughter rippled through the court.

  Rhoads waited a minute before continuing. “Your blouse and your trousers are not listed amongst the evidence recovered by the police. Where are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then I’m afraid—since we have only your word—that we cannot accept your version of what you were wearing. You are an attractive young woman. Are you certain you weren’t dressed more provocatively?”

  “I wasn’t, and I’m sure.”

  “Miss Jeffries, are you expecting this court to believe that you don’t choose your clothes to attract men?”

  “Mr. Toads, you’re wearing an expensive watch. Do you want to attract thieves?”

  There was a restrained chortle from the prosecution barrister and others. Sinclair wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, but he hoped he had: It was a sign of pluck on her part.

  “Your Honour.” Rhoads appealed to the judge.

  “You introduced this line of questioning,” Thomas pointed out, choosing to ignore Jenny’s incorrect appellation.

  “Miss Jeffries,” Rhoads resumed in a firm tone, “my client has wealth, position, and is very attractive to women. When did you decide to pursue him?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “I’d never heard of him.”

  Rhoads feigned surprise. “How can that be? Son of such a well-known British family? He is often pictured in the newspaper for his participation in various charity events.”

  “I’d been in England only a short time when I was attacked by him.”

  “But you have a degree—in English, no less—from a well-respected university. You testified to that yourself. Surely you are capable of reading a newspaper?”

  “Mr. Rhoads,” she used his correct name to ensure his attention, “can you tell me the name of the son of the current governor of Texas?”

  “Your Honour,” objected Rhoads.

  “I rest my case,” Jenny said quickly.

  This time the laughter was more pronounced.

  “I request that these irrelevant comments be stricken from the record!”

  “Mr. Rhoads, I’m not going to do that,” Thomas said. “I’m curious. Miss Jeffries, what is the name of the son of the current governor of Texas?”

  She smiled up at him. “Sir, the current governor of Texas doesn’t have a son. He has two daughters.”

  Even the judge laughed aloud.

  Defence counsel began again. “Miss Jeffries, you are making light of very serious proceedings. This is not a time for levity. If I may continue—on the day in question, you went to my client’s family’s residence, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t go willingly to that little room, wherever it was.”

  “But you do admit to being in that room?”

  “Yes.” She squeezed her fists.

  “You admit to being in a private room, fully naked, with my client?”

  “He took my clothes!”

  “Did he, Miss Jeffries? Can you testify under oath that he—and no one else—removed your clothing?”

  Her fingernails dug into her palms. “No.”

  “You were hoping to seduce my client into doing something you could blackmail him for, weren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “You hate my client, don’t you?” Rhoads pressed. “You’d say anything to convict him.”

  “Only the truth can do that.”

  “And humiliating him—putting him through this distasteful process—isn’t enough, is it? You want revenge on him as well, don’t you?”

  Rhoads had raised his voice, but she didn’t think he could hold a candle to Sergeant Casey when it came to using an intimidating tone. “I don’t want revenge,” she declared. “Revenge means my doing to him what he did to me plus some, and that’s not possible. Justice is submi
tting the facts to an objective body and abiding by their decision. I am here for justice.”

  “Your Honour, I object. Miss Jeffries is not a legal professional, and these lines of testimony should be removed.”

  “Mr. Rhoads, legal definitions do not harm your case. Besides, it’s as good a description of the two as I’ve heard in a while, so I’m going to let it stand.”

  Rhoads paused for a moment before continuing. “Then the truth is, you couldn’t wait to spread your legs for my client, could you? Handsome man that he is!”

  She recoiled, feeling shamed by the crudeness of the question.

  “No!” “No? Then you desired rough treatment to excite you before intercourse?”

  She gasped in shock and did not reply.

  “Your Honour, have we disregarded the standards of decency entirely?” asked Mr. Benjamin. “When decency leaves, truth is not far behind.”

  “Mr. Rhoads,” remonstrated the judge.

  Rhoads either wasn’t aware or didn’t care that she hadn’t answered his last question. “And you wanted more, didn’t you? Tell me—after sexual intercourse, how did you get a clean-cut well-bred young man like my client to participate in deviant sex?” He turned toward the jury with a disgusted expression on his face.

  “Mr. Rhoads, I’ll thank you to direct your opinions to the bench,” Judge Thomas said severely.

  Her body was beginning to ache again. Even her fists felt sore when she squeezed them. “Mr. Rhoads—I never had sex with your client. Sex is—”

  Rhoads started to interrupt, but his objection was waved aside by the judge.

  “—what happens between two consenting adults. I never gave my consent. What happened to me was a crime, and that’s why it’s called by other names.”

  Sinclair wanted to cheer.

  “Miss Jeffries,” scolded Rhoads, “first you ask us to believe that you were a virgin, and now you lecture us about the nature of sex. I find it very difficult to believe that you are as much a victim as you pretend to be.”

  “Your Honour, my learned friend is testifying,” objected the prosecutor.

  “Indeed,” said the judge.